


morganatic

by manhattan



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Drama & Romance, F/M, Happy Ending, Marriage Proposal, Minor Violence, Or: A Look Into More Realistic Medieval Marriages With Nobles, POV Male Character, Politics, Romantic Tension, S-Support: An Alternate Rendition, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-12 07:59:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18442358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manhattan/pseuds/manhattan
Summary: Chrom makes up his mind about marriage. Robin does too, but backwards.“Marry me,” he would say later, as Robin panted beside him, hair still frizzy with lightning, the battle thundering around them like a storm. “Marry me, Robin,” he would say, later, as Robin leant on him to take weight off her bleeding leg.“Chrom,” Robin would say, later, as her eyes widened and her mouth didn’t. “Oh, Chrom,” she would say, averting her gaze to the crimson mud beneath their feet, and there would only be silence as the militia raged on.





	morganatic

**Author's Note:**

> i just finished the game and i'm riding out this wave as far as it'll take me. i've also been trying to counter-attack my perfectionist's tendencies and posting things before i have a chance to dissect them and stop liking them. so far, so good.
> 
> it also helps that chrom/robin gives me life lmao

In the distance, lazy windmills turned under the weight of the cool morning wind. Soldiers packed tents and boxes onto horse-driven carts, stopping only to yawn or yell greetings at comrades.

At the center of the bustle, Chrom stood in silence, eyes on the windmills. His arm was mottled dark and purple from yesterday’s skirmish with bandits, but he only remembered when he moved it. The pain was constant but dull, only sharpening when he brought a hand to shield his eyes from the sun.

Lissa prodded at it, then, and made a face up at him.

“I told you I’d heal it,” she said, matter-of-factly. The reprimand was softened by the yawn she offered him, wide and feline. Tears glinted at the corner of her eyes.

“It’s fine,” Chrom said, and batted her hand away. “Keeps me grounded.”

Lissa rolled her eyes and departed with a sigh, making way for the diminishing breakfast line. Maribelle lifted a dainty hand, calling her over, and Chrom went on staring at the windmills. The blades rolled; that taut fabric, blooming with fat pockets of air, reminded him to take a deep breath.

“Marry me,” he would say later, as Robin panted beside him, hair still frizzy with lightning, the battle thundering around them like a storm. “Marry me, Robin,” he would say, later, as Robin leant on him to take weight off her bleeding leg.

“Chrom,” Robin would say, later, as her eyes widened and her mouth didn’t. “Oh, Chrom,” she would say, averting her gaze to the crimson mud beneath their feet, and there would only be silence as the militia raged on.

Later.

Now, he only breathed in deep, swallowed the crisp of the dawn, and made his decision.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The night nipped at the naked skin of his back, still damp from too-warm tents. Robin, still in her night gown, had stayed back, poring over her roster and calling out commands as Chrom drove his blade up a risen’s gut. Cold blood sprayed across the inside of his elbow as the fiend gurgled, eyes wide and glowing red in the moonlight.

At his side, Vaike stumbled out of his tent and jammed the butt of his axe into the risen’s temple. The cracking sound caught the attention of two nearby entombed, who turned to groan.

“Attacking at night is low, even for assholes like you guys!” Vaike yelled, pulling up his pants with his free hand. He swung his axe in a wide, careless arc as he ran past Chrom, toppling over the defeated risen.

Chrom watched him go, retrieving his sword and wiping it half-heartedly on his enemy’s scraps of clothing. Behind him, Robin threw a haphazard line of electricity, illuminating her profile and the metal lining of a corpse’s lance. Chrom reacted before his mind caught up, putting himself between her and the fiend’s weapon just as her magic hit—

“Oh,” he said, as the flesh sizzled off the risen’s tumbling bones, and felt wondrously stupid.

“Thank you,” Robin said, polite, but her smile had yet to be returned. Chrom felt the embarrassment brand a hot mark on his face, and had to look away, pretending to fiddle with the handle of his rapier.

“It’s nothing,” he said, and risked a glance at her.

He’d thought … He’d thought—

Robin’s face was flushed, or maybe it was just the warm light of the torches, lit in a hurry when the horns sounded. She looked back at him, hair a mess, and she was smaller without her robes, without the hood, without the air she carried with her into battle. Chrom thought of how her body had been both sharp and smooth, even through the soft steam of the baths, and had to look away again.

He’d thought she had loved him, too.

“We should talk,” Robin said, reading him better than the roster. “I only – it’s not that I don’t—” And here her face darkened, blood-flush and beautiful, she _was_ , and Chrom’s breath stopped in his chest. She bit at the side of her cheek, chewing her words, and finally she spoke: “It’s not as simple as saying yes.”

Chrom couldn’t help laughing, the disbelief expelled with air and mirth. A sweetness dug into his flesh, turning him lighter than the clouds in the starry sky, as he realized he hadn’t been wrong in assuming.

“How not?” Chrom asked, stepping closer. Her hair smelled like the soap they used to wash the linens. Her eyes were bright. “We could – after, we could—” A breath, a sigh. “The war won’t last forever.”

If only because he would see to it that it didn’t. The Shepherds, too, all that had joined and would join, were committed to peace above all else. There would be a later. There would be a day where Chrom woke with Robin’s weight digging into the mattress, the warmth of her skin against his. Or at least there could be, if she allowed him.

“I don’t remember who I am, or who I was,” Robin finally said, and the flush on her face was dissolved in her austerity. “There are implications to such a – it’s dangerous, Chrom. For you, and – and for Emmeryn. I could be used against you in the future.”

A swallow, thick and dry. She looked away.

“I could be used against you now,” Robin added, in a murmur.

Chrom’s bruised arm was a dull throb of muscle as he grabbed her by the shoulder, slow but firm. Through the thin fabric, her skin was warm, and it pebbled under his palm, all the way to her wrists. Robin’s eyes grew dark, full, and he wanted to lean in, to prove her wrong, to show her how little he cared for the machinations of war and peace.

“We should go,” Robin said, and clapped the roster shut. Thick paper slapped together, and Chrom almost felt it on his face, that stinging rejection. Her face angled to the side, eyes closed. “This isn’t the time for – this isn’t the time.”

“You’re right,” he admitted, because they both knew better.

Soon, dawn broke over exhausted soldiers and uncurled bandages. Robin sat slumped under Maribelle’s staff, fighting off sleep. Chrom sat under Lissa’s, thinking of ties and politics, and it hurt worse than his healing wounds.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The village received them with open arms, celebrating their momentary reprieve from bandit attacks. The fruits of their harvest were laid bare in a banquet by the firelight, paired with wine and fresh bread, and Chrom wanted to see this joy forever.

Robin sat to his right as they drank, watching Olivia muster the courage to dance by the fire. The drink looked good on Robin, even if she refused a second cup; it brought out the flush of her cheeks, the mirth in her eyes, and he wondered if he could ever do it half as well.

The nobles of the court never laughed when they drank.

“You’re staring, milord,” Frederick pointed out in a low tone, masking it behind his cup as he took a sip. “It is unbecoming,” he added, when Chrom failed to find an appropriate reply, “even if it is to be expected.”

Chrom’s face grew warm. He set down his wine and wondered where the water jugs were, but Robin caught on quick, and she handed him her cup.

“Not used to drinking?” she asked, smiling, and Chrom could recognize when he was being teased.

“Not really,” he admitted, despite himself, and took her water. Looked at the rim of it, pictured her mouth, and brought it in for a sip. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Robin replied, and her smile lost the mischievous edge. Her features were blurry as the fire moved under the breeze, and they made her look softer than she likely was.

From his left, Frederick cleared his throat. Chrom blinked and composed himself, giving back the cup, and tried to search for something, anything, to talk about with her. Was it possible to miss someone you saw every day? Someone who brushed against you on the battlefield, back-to-back, shoulder-to-shoulder? Because, gods, he missed her.

“I still stand by what I asked,” Chrom said, because he did, and because he wanted her to know.

Robin’s expression dropped just as her mug did. Cool water splashed at their feet, and Frederick exclaimed something that he had likely picked up from Maribelle, but their gaze held fast.

“Chrom,” Robin whispered, and her mouth puckered at the syllable, enough that his eyes flickered downwards to catch the motion.

“Please,” Chrom said.

Under the table, his hand found hers, and his arm did not hurt. Their gloves had been peeled off before the feast, left safe inside the armory along with their weapons, and he could feel the smooth skin of her hands. A callus was forming at the palm, but she had writer’s hands, mage’s hands, and he wanted to press them into his warming cheek.

“Whatever happens,” he said, “we can handle it together.”

They had done so until now. Chrom was struck with the realization that he trusted Robin with his life, then, and not only in battle. Whoever she was, whoever she’d been … She had long since made her way into his heart.

He loved her so.

“Please,” Chrom repeated, and his voice almost broke. He had to look away, then, embarrassed for pleading but satisfied that she’d know he would, for her.

Robin’s hand closed around his, her thumb a comforting pressure against the back of his hand. He looked at her as his heart tightened, compact and hopeful, and found her looking back.

“Even if my past catches up?” she asked, in a tone just as soft. “Even if I am a liability to your sister? Even years—”

“Yes,” Chrom promised, unwilling to hear any more.

Robin’s smile was a bittersweet thing. Her eyes grew brighter. But still she asked, ignoring his interruption:

“Even years from now, when time dulls your affections, and our selfishness is measured against the good of your country?”

“It won’t,” Chrom promised, and his grip on her hand tightened, until his heartbeat mingled with hers. It wasn’t so much a promise as it was a fact, indelible for as long as the two of them lived: he would never love her less. “We have sacrificed enough.”

Robin held just as tight, only drawing back her fingers to slide them between his.

“Then yes,” she murmured. There were little lines at the sides of her eyes, her lip curling as the smile grew twice as sweet. “Then yes,” Robin repeated, “I will.”

In the distance, firelit torches danced under the warm breeze. Villagers and merchants danced arm-in-arm, skins flushed and damp, their songs a melody of celebration.

At the center of the bustle, Chrom leant in and kissed her, tasting watery honey-wine and feeling the curve of her smile as it fit, so right, against his. Later, there would be teasing, and congratulations, and planning ahead.

Later.

Now, Chrom kissed her deep and full, and there was nothing else.


End file.
